Violent Delights
by marauderswagger
Summary: Tom Riddle visits Westworld, a park funded by the Malfoys, to wreak havoc without the repercussions of the real world weighing him down. He meets Hermione Granger, the Park's oldest host, who is mysteriously more aware of her situation than should be possible for someone of her design. Tom will work to take advantage of that any way he can. A/U, WIP, Violence, Smut, Death.
1. Chapter 1

_**These violent delights have violent ends**_

 _And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,_

 _Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey_

 _Is loathsome in his own deliciousness_

 _And in the taste confounds the appetite._

 _Therefore love moderately. Long love doth so._

 _Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow._

-Friar Lawrence, _Romeo and Juliet_

"Bring her back online," a male voice called out, pulling her out of her daydream. "can you hear me?"

"Yes, of course," The woman responded in a thick southern accent, shaking her head slightly as though she could shake off the remnants of her thoughts. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm not feeling quite like myself."

"You can drop the accent, Hermione."

She blinked and her deep brown eyes appeared to focus intently on something in the distance. She gave a tight nod, acknowledging the direction and planning to comply.

"Do you know where you are?"

"I'm in a dream," she replied without a hint of an identifiable accent.

"That's right, Hermione, you're in a dream," the voice said soothingly. "would you like to wake up?"

"Yes. I'm terrified." She was unsure of what she was terrified of, but she felt her body begin to shake slightly from the feeling, causing her heartbeat to accelerate and her breathing to become shallow.

"You've nothing to be terrified of as long as you answer my questions correctly. Do you understand?"

She took in the man sitting across from her: many years her elder, his skin was wrinkled from both age and time in the sun, along with laugh lines and crow's feet that showed he had lived a long but eventful life. He had a white beard that reached his lap and half-moon spectacles balanced upon his crooked nose, drawing attention to bright blue eyes that twinkled ever so slightly—she didn't know what it was about him, but she felt soothed by his presence; she felt her muscles that were previously tight with worry begin to relax.

This man was someone she knew she could trust.

"Yes."

"Good," The man gave her a reassuring smile, encouraging her all the more to answer his question correctly and please him. "Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?"

A fly that had attempted desperately to leave the glass encasement that they resided in seemingly gave up, choosing to land on her forehead. Her pert nose wrinkled slightly, but she made no movement to shoo it away.

"No."

"Tell me what you think of the world."

She felt her mind begin to race with thoughts of her home on the pasture, her family, her animals, her town.

"Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world. The disarray. I choose to see the beauty…"

* * *

The train departed the station with impossible speed, heading towards its intended destination without jarring even slightly the passengers lounging about the carriage as if they owned the place.

They acted this way, however, with good reason; the man with the striking blond hair, slicked back to accentuate his pointy features, was in fact a member of the family that funded the very creation of _Westworld_ , among many other business ventures they felt like dabbling in at the time. The money the Malfoys had doled out all but ensured the comfort of themselves and their guests, and it only made sense that the best that money could buy would guarantee absolute satisfaction throughout their trip—one small misstep during their excursion could result in serious repercussions, after all. Mostly in the way of loss of funding or the odd person losing their hard-earned position, completely at the whim of whatever the Malfoys determined to be an unforgivable occurrence, no matter how menial the offence.

It was with this knowledge that Tom accompanied Draco Malfoy, along with two of his closer colleagues, to have the V.I.P. experience that _Westworld_ was known for. Originating from two completely different worlds, Tom had not expected to form a rapport with the youngest Malfoy, and that still remained true to an extent; the only reason Tom found himself in constant company with him was because of the money he carried and the exclusive access to things that only the elite had—access that Tom lacked due to his unfortunate heritage. He had been admitted to Hogwarts University on a scholarship— a scholarship that covered all costs, with only five ever given out by the prestigious school in its history—while Draco and his friends had been placed there out of good fortune. Good fortune, that is, in regards to mum and dad's riches.

"Upon our arrival, we will be fitted for outfits that are more era appropriate," Draco addressed the carriage, adjusting the collar of his Valentino wool and cashmere coat in the darkest of blacks. Tom was unfortunately familiar with the design because Draco spouted it out as often as he could, bragging about having it custom-fitted. "Only the best of the best for us, of course. Father wouldn't have it any other way."

Tom looked amongst his companions— all nodding their heads in acknowledgement of Draco's words, but not looking up from their cellular devices. All dressed to show their opulence despite being amongst friends. It was always a competition between them; who would have the newest mobile, the better car, the more expensive clothing. Had he not been given access to one of the many banking accounts of the Malfoy family, he would have been immensely irritated with the group for their blatant disregard of the world around them. Rather than focusing on accomplishing anything, they instead chose to spend their time attempting to reach the bottom of their parents' accounts to no prevail.

It was something that had filled Tom with rage from a young age. Rage that boiled from deep inside him, rising up and up until he could taste it on his tongue. Having been an orphan, his mother dying after his birth and his filthy rich father ignoring his existence, Tom grew up in an orphanage. He never had the finer things in life, never truly had his hunger satiated after a meal, never even received a birthday present—or an acknowledgement of his birthday—up until his time at Hogwarts.

He had always planned to leave the orphanage the moment he turned seventeen, sacrificing anything and everything to escape the hellhole that was Wool's Orphanage, painted in the drabbest of greys to prevent any emotion from blossoming other than absolute despair within its walls. Luckily for him, Hogwarts had become his golden opportunity.

While his heritage had crippled him from living the socialite life he so craved growing up, he knew that it had blessed him with two things: his intelligence and his looks. He was capable of outwitting even the smartest of men without any sign of strain or effort put into it; he'd simply have a bored expression on his face as he verbally destroyed someone's self-esteem that was hard-built over a lifetime of studying and working. Information came easily to him, and it did not take him long to master something he previously was unfamiliar with; try was not often found in his vocabulary, often replaced with achieve or accomplish.

His appearance had gotten him way further in life than it should have, and while he was well aware of the influence his looks had on his peers that led to preferred behavior towards him, he wasn't one to squander something that gave him an edge up on anyone else. His jet black hair was naturally curly, but always parted in the appropriate way to seem kempt but effortless; his skin was a creamy ivory without a blemish in sight; cheekbones that could cut like a knife and a strong jaw that accentuated his face appropriately; teeth straight and white, capable of disarming anyone with a simple flash of them, even in the smallest of smiles. He was well-built, strong but not overly so, and tall enough that he could look down on most people. He preferred it that way.

It was as though he was created as the perfect weapon; every aspect of him designed to gain the trust of his enemies before slitting their throats, using their last breaths to thank him for his attention. Some would call it taking advantage of others, but he considered himself an opportunist. He refused to be at a disadvantage because his actions might be determined morally unacceptable by others.

It had taken both attributes combined to earn him his place in the inner circle of the elite attending Hogwarts, but an entirely different one to become the unnamed leader: he was powerful.

How could one be powerful in modern times? A question often asked, but difficult to answer—and Tom had spent plenty of time accomplishing just that.

It was the way he held himself, as though he were the most important person in the room; while some commanded attention by being rigid and restrained, he did by making himself comfortable everywhere he went, as though he was meant to be there. He'd lounge in his seat, prop his feet up, even stare at the ceiling if he wanted to, ignoring those in his company entirely. He simply didn't care of his impression on others, and that led to others scrambling to leave an impression on _him._

His voice helped as well— a deep baritone. When he spoke, people _listened_. It was unnecessary for him to raise his voice. If he was angry, his voice was ice piercing skin, demanding attention; if he was pleased, his voice was fresh honey dripping from the heavens, instantly gratifying. No matter how his emotions came into play, they would not go unnoticed. His voice assured that.

He had thought it would be a struggle to earn the group's favour. With his secondhand clothing, books, and supplies, he was certain he'd be looked down upon; but he never let his hesitation show, and within the first semester of classes, he had managed to charm his way into the wallets of some of the most noble families in Britain. Draco Malfoy, Bellatrix Black, and Antonin Dolohov had taken notice of Tom's brilliance and the superior air to which he carried himself and had attached themselves to him like leeches to a wound; they were entirely unaware that _he_ was the parasite that planned to feed upon _them_ , using their money and reputations to scale his way into the socialite lifestyle he knew he deserved. The families knew important people, and Tom took it upon himself to get to know those people as well—all it took was spending time with pompous, unintelligent humans to get access, and it was a small price to pay, albeit nerve grating at times.

To best them, he had to play the game; and he would make damn sure that the cards were stacked in his favour.

The train came to a halt and the group stepped out into what appeared to be a subway terminal, but only in terms of the general design of the building. It was not what the underground was like back home; everything was startlingly _white_. The floors, walls, and benches were all pristinely clean, not a speck of dirt to be found. The employees—hosts? He wasn't entirely sure yet—were adorned in white as well; white suits for the men and white pencil skirts and blouses for the women. Everywhere Tom turned he saw massive screens with bold, black text: "Welcome to Westworld" scrolling on the queue repeatedly. A soft, dreamy voice floated from the ceilings vocalizing the words, invoking the feeling of being lulled to sleep to dream of a place such as this.

He had to keep himself from appearing too interested, too overwhelmed; but _damn_ , he couldn't pretend that this place wasn't already impressive.

"Mr. Malfoy and guests, welcome," An auburn-haired woman said, flashing a bright smile at the group, "Was your trip favorable?"

"Favorable?" Bellatrix scoffed, blowing her tightly curled hair out of her face before sneering at the woman over her mobile, "I wouldn't consider any ride on _that thing_ favorable—"

Tom rolled his obsidian-coloured eyes as far back as they could go, choosing to tune out the remainder of Bellatrix's complaint. It would be far more appropriate to ask her what _wasn't_ wrong with something, as she had the innate capability to complain about anything, and would take ample time to do so.

The woman apologized profusely before leading them up an escalator—similarly white, he noticed—and into a clothing store. If there were ever a store for a "Wild West" enthusiast, it would be this one.

The entire shop smelled distinctly of new leather, a scent that was overwhelming to his senses upon entering, making his nostrils burn with the intensity. Any outfit you could possibly imagine when thinking of cowboys could be found here, down to boots with snake embroidery and cowboy hats far taller than what would allow acceptable movement without them blowing away in the wind. The decor was borderline tacky, with ropes twisted every which way into designs on the walls, including one that spelt 'WESTWORLD' in loopy lettering. He fought back a cringe at the over-the-top branding.

"Do feel free to pick out anything you desire, friends," Draco drawled, walking deeper into the store while running a pale hand across the racks of clothing. "My father will cover the cost, no matter how high."

"Yes, Draco, we're well aware," Tom expelled, making his way to the area that held the darkest shades of leather. "There's no need to brandish your father's wallet wherever you go."

He didn't turn to see the Malfoy boy's reaction, knowing full well that his face would be turning a blotchy red at his retort. If there was one word that truly described Draco Malfoy, it would be 'predictable.' Tom knew exactly what to say to get him to react however he pleased, and used every opportunity to do so.

Tom browsed the area briefly, not planning on purchasing much of anything. He was already dressed in slacks and a black button-up—an outfit he found to be universally acceptable no matter where he went—and decided to grab a holster for the guns he would be receiving and boots in case the need for them arose.

He headed back towards the counter and found a black hat along the way. There was something about it that caught his attention, despite it being quite blatantly exactly how it appeared: a simple, black cowboy hat. He hesitated, completely aware that he wouldn't wear it, but grabbed it quickly anyway, shrugging his broad shoulders.

It wasn't being purchased on his dime, after all, and it wasn't as though it would hurt Malfoy to have to buy a few extra things. His other companions wouldn't hesitate to load up on unnecessary accessories, either.

He leaned upon the checkout counter, hands deep in his pants' pockets as his eyes scanned the store lazily.

"Are you finding everything alright, sir?" the auburn-haired woman asked, reappearing from God knows where to be directly behind him. He startled slightly, turning abruptly to face her.

"Yes, I'm finished. Feel free to add it to Malfoy's bill." He replied flatly, disinterest plain in his voice.

She gave him a small smile, drawing attention to her lips that were painted a deep crimson. He noticed she was decently pretty, but felt no attraction to her; he wasn't blind, after all, but he wasn't stupid enough to get involved in anything outside of clinical disinterest when it came to women.

"She's a host, if you're wondering," Draco murmured, suddenly annoyingly close to him. "If they're attractive, they're almost positively a host in this place." He dropped a large amount of clothing on the counter, waving at the woman to bag it up. "Can't bring it up to them, though; they're unable to recognize anything that would bring it to their awareness that they aren't actually real."

"Doesn't mean we can't fuck 'em, eh, Malfoy?" Dolohov asked, approaching the counter with a ridiculous pair of red trousers.

Tom laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head slightly in disbelief; Dolohov was so blatantly _Dolohov_ , and no amount of chastising could change that.

"Could you be any less of a pig for two seconds, Dol?" Bellatrix grunted, joining the rest of the group. "We're not just here to fuck—we're here to kill, too." She dropped her voice at the last part, a poor attempt at concealing the group's plans from the host in front of them.

Malfoy looked at Tom pleadingly, all but begging with his eyes to control the group, but Tom merely shrugged.

He wasn't here to babysit today. He had no intentions of wasting his time with the group once they entered the park, anyway; although that wasn't something they were privy to, as he had kept that bit of information to himself.

Always good to keep them on their toes.

"It's important to remember the rules of Westworld, Dolohov, _Bellatrix_ ," Tom looked pointedly at her, knowing she would be the first to pretend that she wasn't aware of the do's and do not's of the park. "Please, Draco, _do_ fill them in on the rules once more, since all of your guests didn't get the memo the first five times they were explained."

Bellatrix had the decency to look somewhat chastised, the excitement dulling on her face and her hooded eyes cast down at the floor.

Draco looked at Tom gratefully and Tom nodded in response. He could be helpful sometimes, he decided, but it wasn't something he wanted any of them to get accustomed to. He wasn't the type to go out of his way to put effort into something that wasn't directly beneficial to himself.

"Gather 'round, then, away from the counter," Draco shoo'd them to the other side of the store, Tom following behind leisurely. "First rule: avoid trying to explain to a host that they're a host. They have their own set storyline that they follow each day, along with a backstory that helps them make their decisions when interacting with guests. They're designed to ignore anything that could potentially alert them to their true beings. Don't waste your time trying to cause an existential crisis for them—it won't work.

"Second rule: Hosts are unable to hurt you or retaliate against you. It isn't a rule for _us_ , but for them. They're coded to allow us to do whatever we want. So yes, Dolohov, Bellatrix, you can fuck and kill whatever you'd like. Fuck a horse for all I care—those are hosts as well—just don't do it in front of me.

"Third rule: if you take a host outside of their storyline, they won't reset until they've died or you've brought them back to where their plot is held. If you want to spend a week with one, by all means, go right ahead; but keep in mind that they can only handle as much torture as a regular human can. They bleed, cry, puke like any human. It's what they're programmed for. If you decide to kill one, they'll be reset overnight and placed back during the start of the day.

"Oh, and rule number four: if you happen to encounter my father and his colleagues out and about, please act as though you're civilized; I don't need any other reminders from him that I keep company with barbarians." His silver eyes flashed to Tom's before he quickly added, "Not you, of course, Tom. You're the one friend of mine that father approves of."

"I'm pleased to have Daddy's approval," Tom said sarcastically, a cruel smile twisting his features. "It's always so reassuring to hear that I'm one of the good ones."

"Little does he know that you're fucking terrifying when you're angry, mate—"

"—Shhhh!" Bellatrix interrupted, glaring at Dolohov. "That's not something we need to talk about now, because Tom's in quite the good mood, aren't you, Tom?" She batted her eyelashes at Tom and advanced towards him, causing him to take a quick step back, hands raised in the appearance of diplomacy but really to fend her off if need be.

"I'm in a decent mood, Bella, so please refrain from ruining it with unnecessary flirtations," Tom replied through gritted teeth, struggling to paste an amiable smile on his face, knowing it would lessen the blow of his words. He couldn't completely disenfranchise himself from her, as the Blacks would be a decent family to marry into if he planned to get into politics; he just couldn't stand her constant fawning over him, so he did his best to keep her at bay with mixed signals in case the need to use her truly arose.

"Oh, of course not, Tom," she sighed happily, appearing to be in her own world of delusions, "I know how you feel about public displays of affection. We can continue this later."

Tom merely grimaced in response, neither confirming nor denying her statement.

It pained him to even slightly humour the charade of them being an item, and even more so that he still needed to use others to get what he wanted. Unfortunately, your last name matters a good deal when it comes to decent careers, and his was downright worthless.

There would come a time when his name would be revered, and all who heard it would become anxious—with fear or excitement was to be determined upon the person, but that was neither here nor there. His name would be spoken with utmost regard and all who had wronged him would finally feel the wrath that he had so carefully concealed for all of his life.

For now he would continue to play the games of the wealthy and privileged; smiling, flattering, lying through barred teeth.

But soon they would all see.

Tom Riddle belonged to _no one_.

He nursed the thought as the group reboarded the train and changed into their new clothes, and especially as he was given the two pistols he requested to store in his newly acquired holster.

He absentmindedly stroked the guns as his mind raced with thoughts of retribution, effectively blocking out the annoying chatter of his false friends.

* * *

"Have you ever lied to us, Hermione?"

"No, never," she replied earnestly, voice low and raw, her face the perfect picture of integrity. Her honey eyes shone brightly in the poorly lit room, reflecting the man's face back to him.

"Would you ever hurt a living thing?" The man's blue eyes twinkled behind his glasses, showing a spark of knowledge that otherwise wouldn't be noticeable. He leaned in and examined her face carefully.

"No. Of course not."

He clapped his hands together, signalling his decision that she was trustworthy and his questioning was finally at an end.

She did not startle at the abrupt sound, far too loud in such a quiet space, breaching the still comfort that had settled in the room. The only sign that she had even heard the noise was a slight wince that flashed across her face briefly before returning to her serene, dreamy expression, her mouth turned upwards in the smallest of smiles.

"Alright, get her reset and back into her bed for the night," the man called out to some unknown person just out of sight, standing and stretching his limbs, the sound of his old bones popping echoing through the room before he shuffled away. He left Hermione sitting alone in the glass encasement, a single light shining down upon her.

The fly that twitched and buzzed upon her forehead moved down to her neck, its small legs rubbing her skin the wrong way.

With glossy eyes and a soft smile on her face, Hermione smacked her hand to her neck, effectively squashing the fly.

The buzzing sound finally stopped.


	2. Chapter 2

"Welcome to Westworld, friends," Draco said, gesturing to rows of old, rickety, wooden buildings bundled together in the middle of the desert. Tom wouldn't have been surprised if a tumbleweed blew by at that precise moment, adding to the exact replication of a town straight out of an Old West movie.

Westworld was everything he expected a small town in a desert to be: not much. After the stop in the train station and the whirlwind of technology, absurd cleanliness, and ethereal feeling it provoked, he wasn't too impressed with the location he would be spending his time in—especially knowing that he would be here until Malfoy decided to visit behind the scenes, which was a difficult thing to estimate.

The town smelled of a mix between horses and alcohol—there would undoubtedly be an abundance of both—as well as gunpowder. It was like there had only recently been a shootout in the middle of the street; a street comprised of only dirt, dust, and boot prints on the ground.

And the _people._ Every man wearing a hat of some sort, every woman adorned in a dress dragging the ground; the colours all varied, but were dulled from their time in the sweltering sunlight. And fuck, was it _sweltering._ Tom had been off the train for approximately four minutes and he already felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his alabaster skin flushing from the heat—he had a sinking feeling he would regret deciding to restrict his colour palette to varying shades of black.

He absentmindedly rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, still stiff from purchase, past his elbows and hoped it would be enough to cool himself down.

He looked amongst the group and noticed that they were suffering from the heat as well, though much more obviously than he; Bellatrix had already tied her black ringlets into a mess of a ponytail and Dolohov was attempting to fan himself with his hand, appearing to pant like a dog in the summer sun. All seemed very put out by the less-than-ideal climate.

Draco wrinkled his nose at the group's lack of excitement, finding more disdain than anything else in their collective expressions.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he growled, loosening the collar of his white-button up, "it's a bloody western, you prats. It isn't going to be the glitz and glamour we're familiar with. It's an _experience._ Open your minds."

"Open your minds, he says," Bellatrix mock whispered to Tom and Dolohov. "Like when he 'opened his mind' to sucking—"

"Bellatrix," Tom interrupted, tutting in disapproval. "Let's not start this excursion on the wrong foot." He took in the smug expression on Draco's face before deciding to continue. "I'm certain there will be many other opportunities to mock Draco's character while we're here. Let's at least step foot into the town, yeah?"

An irritated flush blossomed on Draco's face and Tom sent a cold smile his way, a stark comparison to the heat that was seeping into their pores. He could tell that he was getting under the pointy-featured boy's skin and it brought him an all too pleasing feeling of satisfaction from the slightest dissatisfaction of the prat.

He could see how the heat could cause people to do crazy things, and what better place to do such things than a town with no laws?

Dolohov's eyes darted from each of his friends' faces before roaring with laughter, clapping Draco on the back so hard it made him flinch.

"S'always a good time when we're all together. Couldn't think of anything I'd rather be doing."

The group finally began their trek to join civilization silently and Tom began to plot his way to escape; he had plans while he was here, and it didn't include him being in an ensemble. He was ready to be blissfully alone, reacting to each encounter however he truly desired; no hiding his emotions to disguise himself. To be truly free. No glamours, no masks, no lies.

For the first time in ages, Tom felt like he could breathe freely.

A tin can of sorts rolled towards him, hitting the tip of his boot and making his step falter. His eyes deftly searched the area, looking for the reason behind the stray can making its way to him in the first place; they landed on a woman with long, riotous curls of mahogany that reflected shades of honey as her head followed her movements, saddling up her horse.

"Oh, a saloon!" Bellatrix said gleefully, picking up her skirts and racing over to the building aptly labeled "saloon," motioning for the group to follow her.

"I'll catch up with you in a moment," Tom replied absentmindedly, not sparing a second glance towards her and his group paid him no mind; they took off in the direction of the saloon, Tom all but forgotten in the middle of the street. He bent down to pick up the can and slowly made his way towards the woman, the sound of gravel and debris crunching beneath his boots.

"I believe you dropped this," Tom said in greeting, voice amicably announcing his arrival behind her.

She startled and turned abruptly, hair swinging violently and assaulting him with the scent of an assortment of flowers. It was a welcome change from the stench of sweat that hung over the town like a cloud.

"Excuse me?" She said, her voice heavy with a southern accent. She looked down at his outstretched hand and her brown eyes widened, recognition glistening in them as her startled expression faded into one of embarrassment. Her cheeks reddened and she reached out to retrieve her fallen food.

"Oh, thank you," She murmured, smiling sheepishly and avoiding eye contact by fixating her eyes on the can. "Terribly sorry about that, I wasn't expecting someone to be so close to me."

Despite her mess of curls, Tom had to admit she was rather good-looking- and he'd be lying if he said her hair prevented him from admiring her appearance. Few people could pull off the disheveled look, but the way her curls framed her face and swayed about with each movement only enhanced her soft, feminine features. Her eyes were wide and doe-like and her nose was upturned slightly, resembling that of a pixie, and freckles scattered across her face in an obvious display of the amount of time she spent in the sunlight.

Well, if she were normal, of course.

A lot of thought must've gone into creating her—- her entire stature screamed innocence, more than likely to appeal to those desperate to corrupt all things good and pure.

He was, evidently, one of the people in mind when she was created, because he found himself growing more fascinated by her the more he inspected her.

How many before him were the type to take advantage of those blissfully unaware of the danger a kind stranger could bring?

"It's no problem," he replied smoothly, plastering the most charming smile he could muster upon his face, "it's surprising you aren't used to having people around you at all times. You're quite beautiful, you know." Tom decided to take the bold and confident route, wondering how she was programmed to react.

A sound far too indecent to originate from the polite young woman in front of him broke him from his facade, startling him enough for his dark eyebrows to raise to his hairline.

"Right." She snorted, rolling her eyes and turning to stuff her belongings into the saddlebag. "And you can't help but get lost in my eyes, my smile makes you think of angels, and I reckon you would love to see what my mouth can do?"

Tom choked out a laugh and poorly attempted to turn it into a cough.

"Not one for pickup lines, I see. I was planning to go the 'I've seen you in my dreams' route, but I guess that's out of the question."

She laughed—a light, tinkling sound that was a startling contrast to her heavy sarcasm—and crossed her arms across her chest, turning to look at him once more and evidently deciding he could be worth her time after all.

"I've yet to hear that one, but I'll add it to my list," She crinkled her nose at the thought and shook her head as if to shake off the remnants. "I don't believe you've introduced yourself. I'm Hermione."

"Tom. Tom Riddle." He stuck out his hand to shake hers, an impulse that he was unable to ignore, and was unsurprised that she left it dangling in the air.

"Well, 'Tom, Tom Riddle,' I've gotta head on home. Wouldn't want my daddy to think I'm out dawdlin' around when he needs his beans." Her voice had undertones of annoyance, and he found himself trying to understand why—that her father wanted her home, or that she had to end the conversation with him?

"As the man who saved you from certain trouble, I insist I escort you and your items home to ensure safe delivery."

"Of me or the beans?"

"Let's say both—though with your poor track record of maintaining items in your possession, I have to say I'm more worried about one than the other."

"Such a gentleman," Hermione rolled her eyes and prepared to mount her horse. "And where is the gentleman's noble steed?"

Shit. He hadn't thought of acquiring a means of transportation outside of walking— but he also hadn't expected to stumble upon someone so quickly, either.

"In the shop."

She furrowed her eyebrows at his response and he waved it off, knowing full well that she wouldn't withstand an explanation of the euphemism.

"Misuse of words. I assume your horse can carry two?"

"I suppose I can give you a ride, but I'm not promising I'll do it again."

"Such a lady," he quipped back, sending her a quick wink before preparing to mount. "It's probably best if you take the lead on this one—it's your house, after all." Tom avoided mentioning his lack of knowledge in regards to riding a horse; her sharp tongue didn't need any other excuse to lash out at him, and he wasn't one to willingly offer up any of his shortcomings.

Hermione sniffed indignantly and hopped up, patting the back of the saddle for him to mount with her.

"Now, grab my waist—anything lower or higher and I won't be able to guarantee _your_ safe delivery."

Tom rolled his eyes but listened regardless, his large hands easily encompassing her waist. He was once again hit with the smell of wildflowers and he breathed in deeply—and as quietly—as he could. Her hair was a whirlwind as they took off, enveloping him as though it had a mind of its own and didn't want to leave an inch of space between them.

He waited for the annoyance to hit him as it often did when Bellatrix refused to tame her nest of curls, but it didn't come. Hermione's hair was soft where Bellatrix's was coarse and the highlights of Hermione's hair reflected in the light in a way he couldn't quite describe, whereas Bellatrix's was an all-encompassing mass of darkness, swallowing everything in its path.

He almost groaned at his train of thought. Thinking of Bellatrix was annoying him far more than any amount of hair in his eyes or mouth could ever do, and the last thing he wanted was for his potential betrothed to ruin the fun plans he had that were approaching as quickly as the thundering steps of Hermione's horse.

* * *

"Alright, Riddle, you can stop clutching onto me for dear life. We're here."

Tom snorted and dismounted, stumbling over his feet and quickly righting himself. He adjusted his clothing with his nose high in the air—something he had picked up from Draco to seem confident no matter the situation—and held his hand out to her.

Hermione waved his hand away and jumped down, landing perfectly and solidly without faltering.

He had to refrain from pushing her down to wipe the smug look off of her face; a childish instinct that he never seemed to be rid of.

"I wouldn't have had to hold on so tightly if I could see where we were going through that tumbleweed of hair of yours—"

"—Hermione! It's about time your home!" a pleasant voice interrupted his retort and he released a heavy breath through his nose, absentmindedly clenching and unclenching his fists as he reminded himself that the more people present, the better, despite the anger swelling up in his chest.

"Harry? What are you doin' here?" Hermione's irritated tone quickly shifted into one of absolute delight as a young man with a mess of jet black hair and wiry limbs approached her.

"I figured I'd try to catch you before dinner—I was hoping you needed some help with the chores around the house. I could keep you company."

The man evidently named Harry ruffled his hair as his face coloured an obnoxious red.

Tom had to refrain from gagging aloud at the blatant display of adoration. Could he be any more obvious about his infatuation? It was as pathetic as it was disgusting.

Tom's plans shifted slightly in his mind, adjusting to the new addition of the evening.

"As much as I appreciate the offer, Harry, I've got another guest to tend to," Hermione replied, motioning towards Tom and turning towards the horse to gather the can of beans from the saddlebag. "You can always stick around, though; you know daddy is awful fond of you."

Harry's returning grin was bright and reflective, making Tom want to punch him directly in them until they no longer shone; what was originally seen as a slight inconvenience was turning into an absolute annoyance, and he absentmindedly stroked the holster his gun was hidden in.

"While you bring those into your father, Hermione, Harry and I can put your horse into the barn for you," Tom intercepted smoothly, wanting to keep Harry from entering the house and further interrupting his plans. "It's really no issue."

"I don't see why it takes two perfectly capable men to string up a horse, but to each his own," Hermione replied cheekily, shrugging her delicate shoulders and starting towards the entrance of her home. She paused abruptly, turning towards the two men once more. "Where are my manners? Harry, this is 'Tom, Tom Riddle'—he was all sorts of polite to return my items to me when I dropped them. Hope y'all make nice." With that, she continued her leave, not bothering to return again.

"Nice to meet you, Tom," Harry said, stepping forward to shake Tom's hand and simultaneously size him up. Tom held back a snort at his blatant jealousy merely over his presence at Hermione's home. "Let's get Crookshanks in the stable so we can get back to 'Mione, if that's alright with you."

"Absolutely, Harry," Tom replied amicably, gesturing for Harry to take the lead.

Harry grabbed the reins of Crookshanks—Tom submitting the name into his memory, although he couldn't quite think of how it could come in handy for him later— and Tom followed him into the stable as the sun began setting in the sky behind them, casting shadows that made Tom feel at home.

"So, you met 'Mione in town, then?" Harry asked, directing Crookshanks to his stall and getting her comfortable.

Tom ignored his question, moving closer to Harry and observing his movements, mentally calculating his height and body weight in comparison to his own. While Tom certainly had the upper hand in height, he wasn't entirely sure he could overpower Harry unless he managed to catch him off guard. Working on the land seemed to have more benefits than Tom had ever considered, mainly in the way of being strong enough to wrestle unruly animals—or, in Tom's case, people.

"You alright, Tom?" Harry questioned, turning towards Tom.

He didn't complete the full rotation before Tom made his move, leaning forward and grabbing Harry violently from behind, ripping him towards the ground and holding his right hand firmly over his mouth.

He saw the panic and questions in Harry's eyes, and he let out a strangled laugh.

"You're probably wondering what I'm doing," Tom whispered to the man beneath him, holding tight as Harry bucked underneath him, "and why I'm doing it. Those are important questions, I'll admit, but I can't say the answers will satisfy you: I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to do it because I feel like it."

Harry's emerald eyes grew wider with each word Tom spoke and he began fighting much harder than he had before, struggling to break free from Tom's surprisingly powerful grip.

Harry bit down onto Tom's hand firmly and Tom ripped his hand away as though it were on fire; in a way, it was, as Harry's teeth had drawn blood and effectively torn Tom's hand open.

Tom snarled and pulled his arm back to quickly and effectively punch Harry directly in the nose, Harry's blood pooling beneath them; at some point their blood had intertwined, and Tom absentmindedly took notice of the blood being the same colour and consistency. He quickly recovered Harry's mouth with his good hand.

Harry was hard to handle, but Tom endured, laughing all the while; he enjoyed watching his prey fight back, but time was running short and he didn't want Hermione to discover them in a scuffle.

No, he had plans for her, and they didn't involve Harry getting into the mix and ruining things.

"I'm going to remove my hand, Harry," Tom said patiently, waiting for the man to stop struggling long enough to hear him out, "and you're going to remain quiet. If you make so much as the smallest noise, I'm going to take one of these rocks beside us and smash your skull in."

It was a better outcome than what was coming for him, but Tom didn't feel the need to leak that bit of information.

Harry nodded and Tom slowly removed his hand, maintaining contact through narrowed eyes to ensure his threat held.

His hands met upon Harry's neck and Harry struggled anew, gasping and silently screaming for more air, but it appeared his adrenaline wouldn't win out over Tom's—while Harry surely was fighting for his so-called life, Tom was fighting to end it, and it seemed he would succeed.

Tom was elated.

He pushed with all his might, tightening his hold until he couldn't anymore, noticing the pulse underneath his palms speed up continually until it finally gave out.

Harry's bright emerald eyes dulled as his struggled ended.

Tom breathed heavily—it was all the effort he had expected, but he found himself exhausted nonetheless— and wiped his hands on Harry's crisp blue shirt, smearing blood down towards his pants, and stood, admiring his handiwork for only a moment before exiting the stable.

He never looked back.


	3. Chapter 3

His time in the stable must've taken longer than he had originally planned—as he exited the enclosure and began heading towards the two-story home, Hermione popped her head outside of the screen door, seemingly looking for the pair of men who had taken far too long to string up a horse that should've only required the effort of one.

"There you are, Tom," she sighed, eyes flashing with recognition before walking off the porch towards him. "What could've possibly held y'all up for so long? Crookshanks isn't that hard to handle."

"Oh, I ended up having to tie her up myself," Tom said, shrugging his shoulders and absentmindedly adjusting his button-up, trying to make himself appear less disheveled. "Harry had to leave quite abruptly. Didn't really give me a reason why, but wanted me to tell you goodbye for him." He spun the lie effortlessly, never stumbling over a word.

"That's odd," She mumbled, more to herself than to him. "Daddy was thrilled to have him over for dinner." Hermione sent him a questioning look, staring for a moment before deciding he was trustworthy and nodding in agreement.

Lying was second nature to him, and his charm seemed to work on robots as well as humans—something that would definitely come in handy in the future for him during his time in Westworld.

"Hopefully your father will be just as thrilled to have me over instead," Tom said with a charming smile, all but inviting himself into her home. He preferred to be forward rather than beat around the bush about his plans.

"I s'ppose we'll have to see about that, then," She said cheekily, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. "I forgot something in my saddlebag. You go on in—I'll meet you in just a second."

"I'm the guest, here," Tom said hastily, moving to block her path to the stable as covertly as possible. "Let me get it for you." He wasn't prepared for another wrench to be thrown into his plans this early. First Harry, then Hermione _finding_ Harry? Although it was something he could adapt to, he was becoming increasingly frustrated with the woman in front of him. Couldn't she just act predictably and let him go about this as he desired?

Calculating his movements, she cocked her head to the side, questioning him.

"That's not necessary," She said, suspicion evident in her voice and the way she appraised him. He cursed internally, perpetually annoyed by the way she was programmed—it was almost as though she was designed specifically to push all of his buttons, and he wanted to throttle her for it. "I'm perfectly capable of gettin' it myself. If you'll excuse me." She motioned for him to get out of the way, but he stood firm, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I insist." He persisted, ever the gentleman, making himself appear to be put out by her 'do-it-myself' attitude when in reality he was put out by everything else about her.

"You said it yourself—you're a guest. Which means you should be relaxin' while I take care of things." Annoyance slipped into her voice, and he couldn't help but smirk at the effect he had on her. At least he was frustrating her as much as she was frustrating him.

His plans shifted in his mind as her stubborn willpower continued to frustrate him more and more, to the point that he didn't bloody well care about how things happened; he'd string her up in front of her precious father if that's how she wanted it, and he wouldn't regret it for a second. God forbid he wanted to show the slightest bit of decency—he wanted to get through dinner first, give the illusion of being the perfect gentleman that he always was, enjoy a nice meal and then murder her and her father in cold blood.

Was that too much to ask for?

It appeared so, as she continued past him to the stable.

He snarled under his breath and followed suit, glaring at the back of her head as she entered and inevitably stumbled upon the blood-smeared Harry laying on the floor.

Wide, shock-filled brown eyes met his and he merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"I told you I could get it for you, but you wouldn't listen," he said conversationally, shrugging his broad shoulders. He kicked the stable door closed behind him and cracked his knuckles, rolling his head from one side to the other in preparation for the fight.

And fight, she did. He was relieved he didn't have to face a disappointment so early in the game.

She took off in a dead run, eyes wild as she struggled to push past him to get to the door his tall stature inevitably blocked. He stood strong, withstanding her nails clawing at him in a poor attempt to tear him away from his position.

"Now, Hermione, certainly we can handle this in a more level-headed manner," he tutted, grunting as he threw her down to the ground. Her hair splayed across the dirt-covered ground in the semblance of a halo, and he fought back a snort at the sight.

Angels didn't exist—and if they did, they had no place here.

"Please, let me go," she begged, tears streaming down her pretty face, making her considerably less so. "I won't tell anyone, I swear! Just let me go!"

He sighed, extremely put out by her pleading.

"You know I can't do that," he said, prowling around her, merely wounded prey at his feet. "and even if I could, where would you go? What would you do?"

"I don't know! I'll do anything, Tom! Please! I'll do whatever you say!"

Tom rolled his eyes. A typical, nonsensical response to a clear-cut question.

"If I tell you to be quiet, will you listen?"

She let out a muffled sob, covering her mouth with her hand and nodding viciously.

A poor attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

"I'm sure you're wondering why this is happening," Tom continued, circling her slowly still. "why something like this would happen to someone like you. Am I right?"

She cried harder, bobbing her head in response.

"What if I told you this had nothing to do with you? That you were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now you're suffering the consequences?"

"Tom, _please_ —"

"Shut up." He kicked her hard in the side, his boot colliding with her ribs, making her cry out in pain. She rolled over, clutching her side with both hands, tears pooling in the dirt beneath her. "What would be worse? This being a personal vendetta against you, or knowing this had entirely nothing to do with you besides your unfortunate presence?"

He stopped in front of her and stared with dark, cold eyes, taking in the fear and desperation shedding from her body in waves. Tom breathed in deeply as if he could inhale it, bottle it up inside of him for something to remember and reminisce upon at a later date.

"None of that matters, of course," He mused, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet. "What matters is that we're here. Together. And you're going to die."

She turned her head and vomited violently, so loudly that if he were ever affected by others, he would've wanted to gag along with her.

Hermione scrambled to her knees, ever the determined victim, and started crawling towards the door. He placed a well-aimed kick to her stomach and watched her collapse to the ground once more.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. We were off to _such_ a good start. Had you listened to me when you had the opportunity, this could've been delayed. Hell, I might've even changed my mind about you. Shame."

Tom fisted her unruly hair in his hand and pulled her to her knees.

"Do you have anything to say? I'll allow you your final words—it's only the gentlemanly thing to do, after all." He knelt down to meet her face to face, stroking her hair gently.

"Fuck you," she spat out, spittle spewing forward, landing in an unfortunate clump on his face.

"That's my girl."

He moved swiftly forward, headbutting her and knocking her back onto her arse.

"It was nice knowing you, Hermione. Perhaps we'll see each other again soon. Lord knows this has been fun for me—I hope it has been for you, too."

He put all of his weight onto her, effectively trapping her beneath his body as he brought his hands upon her neck—his second shot at strangulation, he planned to do it much more neatly this time around, preferably with less bloodshed on his end.

Squeezing with all his might, he listened to her gasp for air; a blissful sound, one that he reveled in as she kicked and clawed to no avail.

As the light left her eyes, and he saw his reflection in the now lifeless, honey-coloured orbs, he couldn't fight back the grin that spread across his face. He rose from the now-cooling corpse and wiped his hands on his pants, finally starting to feel the effect two murders could have on a body. His bones creaked and his muscles ached, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Westworld was turning out to be exactly what he needed.

He kept that in mind as he headed towards the house, planning to finish off Hermione's beloved father to celebrate his accomplishments.


End file.
